


A Visit to London

by katedf



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedf/pseuds/katedf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard uses his vacation time to go back to England. He is surprised to discover that he and Camille communicate better when they’re a few thousand miles apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Plans

Finally! Richard had enough vacation days accrued that he could manage a trip to London. Dear old London, with its chilly drizzle, crowded streets, and the Thames. How he longed for a body of water that did NOT have a sandy beach next to it! The Tube, jammed with passengers; real Routemaster busses on The Strand. Pubs with real English ale on tap. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Please, God, let that place near Covent Garden still be in business and still be making fresh Yorkshire pud. 

His flat was still on sub-let, so he planned to stay in a hotel for a few days. One of the good things about really knowing a city was being able to sort out which of the inexpensive hotels was a “gem” and which were best avoided. And then he would go out to the suburbs to visit his parents. He chuckled remembering the time he’d told Camille that the suburbs were “his people.” But now he wondered, were they? Or were Londoners his people? Or… ?

Pushing thoughts like that aside, Richard looked at his checklist. Flight booked, hotel booked, all necessary emergency information and phone numbers entered into his smartphone. He’d called his mother a few nights before, so they’d be expecting him. Just one item on the list. He shouldn’t have put it off like that, but he had. 

The station was quiet. Fidel was at a meeting with a prosecutor, being prepped for testimony at a trial. Dwayne was logging evidence from a recent case, and printing out relevant information from their internet sources of information. Camille was reading notes on a new case.

“Good morning!” Richard couldn’t help smiling, knowing that he had such a treat awaiting him in just a few days.

Camille looked up and said, “You’re in a good mood this morning.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good. While you’re in such a positive mood, I want to make a suggestion. I’ve been going over the reports from the Shangri-La, and I cannot find a connection among the thefts. I think the only way we’ll solve this is for someone to go in. I want to call the manager and see if he’ll let me go in as a maid.”

“Ah.”

“Ah? Ah, as in aha, Camille you’re brilliant?”

“Ah, as in I hate to tell Camille that she can’t do it.”

“Why not? I’ve done undercover before, in more difficult cases than this. Do you really think I can’t do this?”

“I’m not saying that you aren’t capable. It just isn’t possible because you have to be here. I’m going to London, and you’ll be in charge.”

“London?” 

Richard, completely missing the look of shock and dismay on Camille’s face, grinned and said, “Yes! London. Rain, fog, BBC, pubs, food without eyes, and no bloody sand. Heaven!”

“When?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“And you waited until NOW to tell me—uh, us?”

“I lost track of time. You know, suspects, trials, evidence to process.”

“Do I look stupid, Richard? Because if you think I believe that, you must think I’m stupid. You have probably been counting the days ever since you got permission to go.”

Richard sighed. “I thought it would be easier this way. Not a lot of fuss about you taking over. That’s why I’ve been so careful to make sure that all the details from old cases are taken care of. You shouldn’t have to deal with anything I’ve left undone. You can handle anything new that comes in. If you think you need extra help, ask the Commissioner. He said he’d help if necessary.”

“Wonderful,” said Camille sarcastically.

“He shouldn’t be that bad. Or you can ask for someone from Government House. It won’t matter who they send over. You’ll be in charge.”

“Until they send the next Englishman from the Met,” Camille huffed.

“Until—” Richard was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He held up his hand in a “wait” gesture and answered. “Mum! How are you?” 

Pause

“No. I’ll pack tomorrow night.”

Pause

“I’m not leaving everything until the last minute. There’s just no sense in—” Richard rolled his eyes. 

Pause

“Mum, listen, I have to—”

Pause

“No. Really, you don’t need to do that. I can look up the weather on the Internet.”

Pause

“I won’t forget. I dug it out of the back of the closet already.” Richard turned and faced away from the room. Camille made a face at his back and stalked out the door. 

“Right, Mum. Yes, I will. I have to go. Meeting with my team. Right. Yes.” Richard turned around and noticed that Camille had gone. He made a little “what?” gesture at Dwayne, who responded by pointing to the front door.

“Right, Mum, really must go now, see you soon. Bye.” 

Richard ended the call and walked out onto the porch. He looked up and down the street but couldn’t see Camille. He swore softly and turned to go inside. Then he noticed that she was sitting on the steps.

“Camille?” When she didn’t answer, Richard walked down a few steps so he could stand in front of her. He said, “Camille? What’s wrong? And why do you think they’re going to send someone over from the Met? You’ll be fine in charge. If something happens, you can run the investigation.”

“They sent YOU here.”

Richard felt he was missing something, but had no idea what it could be.

“They sent me here because a British detective was killed, leaving the team without any detective to lead. Lily thought she should have run the investigation, but she wasn’t a DS, let alone a DI. And then the Commissioner kept me here because there was a vacancy to be filled.”

“Exactly.”

“But there isn’t a vacancy.”

“There will be.”

Richard’s heart lurched. “Camille, are you leaving? Where are you going? I thought you were happy in Honoré.”

“No, I’m not leaving, you are.” 

“But—” Richard rubbed his neck and rolled his shoulders. How did this woman manage to make him so tense? “I don’t understand. Why do you think the Met will send someone over for ten days?”

“Ten days?”

“Yes. I haven’t had a holiday since I got here, so I’m taking one now. I’ll be away for ten days, during which time you will be in charge of any investigations. Why are you making this sound so complicated?”

Camille had to fight the smile. The idiot had NO idea! Well, she wasn’t going to inflate his ego by telling him she would miss him.

“Because you didn’t say TEN DAYS before! You just said you were going to England. I thought we were about to get a new DI and have to go through all that startup stuff again.”

Over the past year, Richard had become accustomed to Camille’s quicksilver mood changes. He was also beginning to read her more accurately. Now it was his turn to try to control a smile. If he left, she would miss him! He was surprised how much that thought pleased him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said in the most casual tone he could muster. “You might have got someone easier to work with. Someone less grumpy.”

Camille shrugged. _I don’t want someone less grumpy, you stupid Englishman! I want YOU!_ “The devil you know, and all that,” she said in the most casual tone she could manage.

“Well, I’m glad that’s sorted. If you have a question about something, you can text or email. If it’s dire, call, but remember time zones. I won’t keep my phone on all night.”

Camille nodded. Then she smirked, “Are you all packed? Got your warm coat? Got your umbrella?”

“Don’t you start. Mum is bad enough. I’m a grown man, I can pack for myself.”


	2. Preparations

Camille shook her head when Richard said he could pack for himself.

“I bet you’ve forgotten something.”

“No. I have a list. I just have to put everything into the case.”

“Souvenirs?”

“What?”

“Don’t you want to take presents to your family? Richard, you have been in a tropical paradise for a year. They’ll expect some kind of souvenir!”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Men never think of that kind of thing,” she huffed. She stood up and shouted toward the open door of the station, “Dwayne! We’re going to the market.”

Before Richard knew what was happening, Camille was dragging him to the market stalls. 

“This isn’t necessary. I can get a bottle of rum at the duty-free.”

“Oh, Richard, anyone can think of that. Use some imagination! How about… jewelry! Would your mother like jewelry?”

“I cannot imagine my mother wearing seashells or feathers.”

“Hmm, sometimes there’s a lampwork stall. Cute little earrings? Ooh, come look!” Camille pulled Richard over to the stall. She pointed out glass earrings shaped like orchids and a glass pin shaped like his green lizard. 

“Too fragile, she’d never wear them.”

“Hmm, no fruit, no live flowers. That stuff never is allowed into another country. Probably not dried flowers, either. Let’s see… oh!” Camille took off in a new direction.

This stall had hand-carved animals. Richard bought a carved hummingbird for his mother. Then he spied another stall with carvings. With an evil grin, he walked over to it. Camille stood wide-eyed as Richard bought a hideous voodoo amulet.

“Don’t fool around with that stuff!” she said.

“I don’t believe in it, so it won’t harm me. Anyway, this little guy is supposed to bring luck. I bought it for my brother.”

“But it’s ugly.”

“And so it is.” 

“That isn’t nice.”

“Neither is my brother, most of the time. So, that’s done it. Bird for Mum, carving for my brother. Rum for Dad. If I buy the rum post-security at the duty-free, I can keep it in my carryon and it won’t get lost or broken.”

“See, that didn’t take long.”

“No, it didn’t. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome. Could I borrow your phone?”

“Don’t you have yours?”

“Please?” Camille held out her hand.

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

“Fine,” Richard sighed, and pulled the phone from his pocket. Camille scrolled through various apps and then glared at him.

“Richard, there are no pictures on here.”

He shrugged.

“You have been here for a year and haven’t taken any pictures? Don’t you think your family will want to know about your life here?”

He shrugged again.

“Impossible!” she muttered and continued muttering in French. She took some pictures of the market. Then she walked to the harbor and took a few more. On their way back to the station, she took more pictures—the station, the nearby church, the view from the station’s porch.

“Thank you, Camille. I’m sure they’ll be delighted with these.”

“Oh no, you’re not getting this back yet.” They entered the station, and Camille called out, “Dwayne?”

“Yes?” he looked up and Camille took his picture. “Fidel?”

“Hi Camille,” he grinned for his picture.

Camille handed the phone to Fidel. “Take our picture now.”

“No,” said Richard, edging away.

“I don’t think so,” said Camille. She grabbed his tie and Fidel snapped the shot of the two of them. Fidel looked at the picture and laughed. It looked like she had him on a leash. Well, he thought, so she did. But neither of them quite knew it. 

Since there was no pressing business at the station, Camille decided a photo safari was in order. “Let’s see… your house, the lizard if it’s there, the beach. Oh! We could drive to the lighthouse, that’s a pretty view. Come on!”

If he ever wanted to have control of his phone again, Richard knew he had to follow her, even though he didn’t want to. “Camille, I am not going to England to do a presentation for the tourism board.”

“No, of course not. It’s just some snaps for the family. Isn’t that how you say it?”

-o-o-o-o-

The next day, they had a murder case. Camille took charge, with Richard following her instructions. They had a few suspects to focus on, some evidence to process, and were making good progress. 

When they got back to the station, Camille said, “There isn’t much we can do until we get lab reports. Not much point in staying late. So,” she looked at Richard, “Am I allowed to call it a day?”

“You’re the boss,” he said.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that. Gentlemen, it’s time to go home!”

Dwayne and Fidel said good night, leaving Camille and Richard to close up. 

“I was going to offer to drive you to the airport,” said Camille, “But with the case…”

“No, I have a car picking me up. And you have an investigation to run. You’re doing so well, I’m not sure I’m even needed.”

“Of course you are! You’re much better at the big picture and you keep me from zeroing in on the wrong suspect and—” 

Richard smiled. She really was going to miss him. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be bahk.”

“You’ll be WHAT?”

“Bahk. Back. It’s Schwarzenegger. Haven’t you seen the _Terminator_ films?”

“Seriously? That was supposed to be Schwarzenegger?” Camille giggled. The giggles grew into full laughter. 

“Goodnight, Camille. I have to go home and pack.”

“You mean pahk, don’t you?” she managed to get out between laughs. She got herself under control and said, “Have a good trip. Enjoy London.”

“I will. See you soon.” And he left.

Camille started to giggle again. Damn, but she was going to miss that man.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille arrived at the station before the others the next morning. She was surprised to see Richard a few minutes later.

“Richard, why aren’t you at the airport?”

“Plenty of time. I just wanted… that is,” _I wanted to see you again._ “Um, would you check on my house while I’m gone? Make sure everything is all right. There are a couple of potted plants, if you could give them a bit of water once in a while? My key is in the jar.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure the lizard’s water bowl is full, too.”

“I don’t… Oh, hell.” Richard looked embarrassed. “Yes I do put out water for him. Thank you.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Camille walked over to Richard and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll take care of everything. _Bon voyage.”_

Stunned, Richard almost said bon voyage back to Camille. Instead, he just said, “Right. See you. Bye.” and left the station.

Camille took a sip of her coffee and looked at the wall calendar. How long until ten days were up?


	3. Tea and other English delights

Richard was grateful for the long walk through Heathrow. It always seemed that no matter where he flew from, his plane landed at the farthest gate from Passport Control. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but even he found airline seats cramped. It felt good to stretch. 

His police credentials got him into a fast-track queue and he quickly found himself standing at the luggage carousel, waiting for it to begin to spew bags. While he waited, he took out his phone and scrolled through the photos Camille had taken. He stopped at the one Fidel had taken of the two of them. Richard wished he could crop it. He looked like an idiot, with her tugging on his tie. But she looked beautiful, as always. He used the “pinch” function to enlarge the photo. He looked at her smiling face. It was ridiculous to miss her already. He was just tired from traveling.

The carousel lurched into action, and miracle of miracles! His case appeared about 10 minutes later. He took the Tube into London, checked into his hotel and collapsed on the bed. He called his mother to verify that he was alive and well. He sent Camille a text: 

_Hurrah! Case and I both arrived safely._

-o-o-o-o-

Richard awoke the next morning, surprised that his room wasn’t flooded with sunlight. London! Yes, he was in LONDON! He got up and looked out the window. He could see that the street was wet and people who were out and about were holding umbrellas over their heads. Bliss. He fixed a cup of tea to enjoy while he shaved and dressed, and made a mental list of things he could do. The biggest problem was which to do first. 

Richard was the first guest to arrive at breakfast, so he sat by himself. He picked up that morning’s _Guardian_ and began to skim the news. Now that Camille had finally fixed his television, he’d been able to watch BBC news, but there was nothing like reading a real London paper. Breakfast was a treat—English bangers with beans on toast. And tea. Lovely tea, brewed properly. 

He returned to his room to get his coat. He looked around for his briefcase. No, he didn’t need it today. He wasn’t working. That felt odd, but he told himself that it was possible to spend a day not carrying a briefcase or interviewing suspects. 

Richard stepped outside, glorying in the drizzle. He reached into the pocket of his coat, and there it was, his very own Oyster card. He had checked his balance online and was pleased to see that the transit card still had several pounds on it. He would have to top it up at some point, but it should get him around for the morning. 

Not wanting to miss any sights by being underground, Richard passed a Tube station and stood at a bus stop. He almost didn’t care what bus he took. He just wanted to look at London passing by. He checked his phone to make sure it had adjusted for the time zone change. He noticed that there was a text. It was from Camille:

_Glad you have your case. Hope you get the rain you wished for!”_

Thank you, Camille, he thought. I did and it’s lovely. He stood looking at her message, and got on the first bus that arrived. He happened to have boarded a bus that went past his old precinct station. From force of habit, he got off at that stop. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Richard walked up the steps. He didn’t recognize the security officer at the door, but his credentials got him inside. He stood looking around, wondering if there were any interesting cases going on. He couldn’t look for “his” old team because they didn’t work that way. On Saint Marie, the team was the four of them, every time. Here, the Superintendent had a tendency to just assign whoever was there to a case. The team was different each time. Larger for complicated cases, smaller for simple ones. Everyone seemed busy, and he had nothing to do. He felt in the way, which was odd, as this place had been his home base for so many years. 

“Good God, Dickie Poole, is that you?” DI James Hawkins walked up to Richard. “I heard you were in the Caribbean, you lucky old thing. But, hang on a minute! You can’t have been there. You’re as pale as ever.”

“Sunscreen,” said Richard. “Sunburn is bad for you."

“So is it as good as I think? Sunshine, sand, palm trees, women in bikinis, drinks with little umbrellas in them?”

“I don’t know how good it is, but yes, lots of sunshine, sand everywhere—can’t keep it out of the house. I am not partial to them, but yes there are drinks with umbrellas in them. Mostly rum-based and some quite lethal.”

“And women in bikinis?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, there are,” Richard answered, remembering the bikini Camille had been wearing when he arrested her. “Distracting.”

“Bloody fabulous, you mean! Some people have all the luck! Listen, I’d love to hear more, but the Gov will have my head if I’m late for a team meeting.” Hawkins strode down a hallway, meeting a fellow DI along the way. Richard could tell that they were talking about their case. He wondered what it was about. It might have been interesting to—no, not his case. He was on holiday, mustn’t forget that.

Richard took the Overground to Shadwell and changed to the Docklands Light Railway. He rode to Greenwich, home of the Prime Meridian, the focal point of time for the whole planet. Greenwich Mean Time, Zulu Time, Coordinated Universal Time—call it what you will, England owned it as far as Richard was concerned. So what if Paris had the kilogram and the meter. England owned TIME! No wonder the Tardis was English!

After a pub lunch of fish and chips with a cool (but not cold) hand-pulled ale, Richard took the Riverbus back toward central London. He stood on the outside deck, enjoying the drizzle. He noticed a few new skyscrapers going up. London seemed to get taller and more crowded all the time. A River Police boat passed by. As he looked down at it, Richard noticed how murky the Thames was. He knew that there were fish in it, but you couldn’t ever see them. How they survived was a mystery.

Despite being a river held captive by a city, the Thames does have a few little beach areas, visible at low tide. The tide was out and Richard noticed the bits of rubbish washed up along the riverbank. It was rocky, not sandy, but it still was a sort of beach. He’d never thought about it, but the beaches of Saint Marie were always clean. Yes, stuff washed ashore, a lot of it tossed out by tourist boaters. But the locals cleaned it up, taking pride in keeping the beaches pristine. 

Richard was surprised at how cold it was and how raw the wind along the river felt. He decided to move to an inside deck and get warm. He bought a cup of tea. Well, at least it was hot. He had forgotten that not all English tea is perfect. He was surprised to realize that the tea Catherine made for him was much better than this hot tannin solution. 

Richard made his way back to the hotel. The hotel offered afternoon tea, so he had a good pot of tea and a scone. The scone came with homemade jam and a little dish of clotted cream. He checked to see if anyone was looking, and then he used his phone to take a picture of it. The presentation was lovely, and the picture looked like something out of a cookbook. 

While he was sipping tea and fussing with his phone, Richard noticed that he had a new text message. It was from Camille:

_Sun here. Making progress on case. Cmsh hovering. :-(_

Richard scrolled through the pictures on his phone, stopping again at the shot of him with Camille. 

“Can I get you anything else?” asked the tea waitress. “Oh, she’s pretty. Your girlfriend?”

“Hmm? No, a colleague. Her picture comes up when she sends a text. Just reporting in on work progress.” Richard put the phone in his pocket. 

In his room, Richard used the hotel wifi to send an email and the picture to Camille.

> Camille,  
>  This is what 4:00 PM looks like in Heaven! Your mother’s tea comes close, I must admit. But she doesn’t have scones and clotted cream.  
>  It feels odd to be here and not be working. I feel like a tourist in my own city. I rode the Riverbus today. It was cold on the river! I’d forgotten what it’s like to feel cold.  
>  Sorry to hear that the Commissioner is supervising you so closely. I did tell him that he needn’t worry. Just remember how smart you are and don’t let him rattle you.  
>  Richard  
> 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard woke early the next morning. He decided to give himself another “only in London” treat. He took the Tube to Smithfield, which had once been home to slaughterhouses. Now the area was for was meat processing and wholesale markets. Pubs nearby were allowed to sell beer with breakfast, to feed the workers who started their day in the middle of the night. Richard ordered a full English breakfast and a pint of Guinness. 

It was a slow morning and the waiter was friendly, so Richard explained why he was taking a picture of his breakfast. The waiter envied Richard his time in the Tropics. No matter how hard he tried, Richard could not convince the young man that it was possible for a place to be too hot and too sunny. 

Richard did some more sightseeing and took a few more pictures. He was actually glad he hadn’t had a lot of pictures of London when he first got to Saint Marie. He’d have spent all of his time sighing over them.

Several times during the day, Richard checked his phone for messages, but didn’t get any. When he got back to the hotel, he sent another email to Camille.

> Camille,  
>  Another example of British cuisine! This is what we call a “full fry up.” Sausages, bacon, and eggs, of course. And beans. And black pudding! Also a “fried slice” which, yes, is what it says. A piece of bread fried in the drippings. I have to admit, that’s too heavy for me. But the rest was fantastic. And yes, that is a pint of Guinness. Beer for breakfast!  
>  Did more sightseeing, Museum of London. Did you know that the Romans were here? Bloody cheek, if you ask me! We’ve been invaded several times (even by Normans, perish the thought), but we always persevere.  
>  Richard  
> 

Richard hadn’t received a text or email from Camille since that first morning. He wondered if he should have sent the emails. Maybe they weren’t interesting to her. He hadn’t meant to insult Catherine with the photograph of the tea service. He just wanted to share a moment, something special to him. For some reason, it was important to him that Camille understood how he felt about England and why it had been so difficult for him to adjust to Saint Marie. He reached for the television remote. Maybe he could catch an episode of “Antiques Roadshow.”


	4. Emails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with Camille on Saint Marie and then bounces back and forth between Saint Marie and England. It's a bit long, but it was the only way to break chapters without having lots of tiny ones.

Camille was tired. She hadn’t realized how much easier it was to work a case when the two of them could bounce ideas back and forth. She knew she was good, but she doubted she’d ever have Richard’s ability to notice tiny, but significant details. She looked at her phone. No messages. 

It had been a long day. They were closing in on a suspect, and she hoped to have enough information to make an arrest soon. She desperately needed to do that, if only to get the Commissioner to stop hovering. Clearly, the man had more faith in Richard than he did in her. Dwayne and Fidel were working hard, too. They all missed their Chief. 

After Dwayne and Fidel left for the evening, Camille took Richard’s key out of the jar. After he’d been so ill, they decided that everyone should leave a key at the station in case of emergency. They hadn’t needed the keys, and hoped they wouldn’t, but it made sense to have them. 

When Camille got to Richard’s house, the first thing she noticed was how hot it was inside after being closed up for a few days. If Harry had been inside, he’d be cooked by now. But considering the construction of the house, Harry probably had several ways to get in and out. She picked up the water bowl on the veranda and went inside to fill it.

“Harry? Harry, are you here?” She sighed and shook her head. She was talking to a lizard. Despite thinking it was crazy, she continued as she filled the bowl. “I suppose Richard told you he was going away. That’s why I’m here. So now there’s nice fresh water in your bowl. Next time I’ll bring you some mango.”

Harry didn’t appear. Camille stood in the house and looked around. The place was incredibly tidy. The bed was made, and if he’d put his case on it to add last-minute items, he’d smoothed the covers. Quite a contrast to her home. Whenever she traveled, she’d leave the bed littered with the “rejects” that didn’t fit into her cases. She chuckled to herself, remembering the time she’d arrived home so late she didn’t bother to clear the bed, just dropped her cases and slept on the sofa instead. 

-o-o-o-o-

When Camille got home, she fixed herself something to eat. She checked her phone, but there was no new message from Richard. She started to send a text, but decided not to. 

After supper, she opened her laptop and checked email. She read the two messages from Richard and looked at the pictures. Clotted cream? What was that? Bacon AND sausages, plus a fried slice? She shuddered. How could anyone eat such a huge breakfast? And why weren’t the English all dead from heart attacks before they were 40? She clicked “compose.”

> Mon Dieu, Richard!  
>  Have you done anything but eat since you arrived???? Could you even get up from the table and move after that breakfast? Please tell me you don’t eat like that every morning! (I think I’d better check that my CPR certification is up-to-date)  
>  Yes, I know that the Normans invaded Britain. I believe it is generally referred to as a CONQUEST.  
>  We’re closing in on the case. It’s looking more and more like the secretary did it. I know! I can hear you saying that I always suspect the woman. But she had a lot more authority than we thought at first. Probably more authority than her boss realized. Dwayne was able to get into some financial files. It’s likely she had diverted some money and then the boss caught her. She probably grabbed the first thing that came to hand—why else would a stapler be used as a murder weapon?  
>  Now that I think about it, you’d probably be glad if we arrested her. She’s very pretty, and you could ogle her while she sits in a cell. Too bad she’ll be sent off to long-term holding by the time you get back!  
>  I’ll send you her mug shot, how’s that? No, never mind. Her face isn’t what you’d ogle. ;-)  
>  Camille  
> 

She clicked “Send,” and when the screen returned to her inbox, she saw that she’d just received an email from Richard. The messages must have passed each other in the ether or wherever it was they went.

> Camille,  
>  Still beautifully grey and drizzly here. I suppose it’s sweltering on Saint Marie. I hope the Commissioner is letting you get on with your investigation. I know he means well, but he does tend to get underfoot, doesn’t he? Any interesting leads or puzzling clues? I haven’t had a holiday in so long, it feels odd not to have a case to work on.  
>  I went to my old station yesterday. I chose a bus at random (I think it was random—perhaps it was a subconscious choice to do it) and discovered that I was headed to the station. So I went in. It was odd. I’d worked there for years, and yet it didn’t feel like I belonged. The place was familiar, and I recognized lots of faces (didn’t see one I’d rather not see, but that’s a story for another time). But it wasn’t “my” station any more. I did talk to one DI briefly. He was on his way to a morning briefing. They all rush about so! (Has my paced slowed in the time I’ve been on Saint Marie?) He seemed to think I spend my time sitting on the beach drinking those silly tourist drinks with little umbrellas in them.  
>  British Museum tomorrow. Then off to my parents’ house for the weekend.  
>  Say hello to Saint Marie for me,  
>  Richard  
> 

Camille smiled. It was an unusually rambling message. Maybe it was the late hour. She could imagine him, sitting in his blue striped pajamas, jetlagged and unable to sleep. Probably with a cup of tea beside his laptop.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille woke early. She’d had the oddest dream. Richard was searching for a restaurant that would make him a cup of tea in the middle of the night. The funny part was he was in his striped pajamas. He had his police ID in one hand and an umbrella in the other because it was raining. Camille smiled when she remembered his desperate search for a proper cup of tea in his early days on Saint Marie. She’d actually tried tea for breakfast one time, to see if she could understand why it was so important to Richard. She went back to coffee the next day. Tea just didn’t wake her well enough.

So she made coffee, sliced some fruit, and cut a chunk of a baguette. She used her best handmade pottery dishes, took her breakfast out to the little table on her patio, and took a picture. 

While Camille ate her breakfast, she turned on her laptop, and saw a reply to last night’s email.

> Good morning,  
>  We must have been online at the same time last night. I guess I shut down right before your message hit my inbox. To reply:  
>  1\. We do not eat a huge fry-up every morning. We often eat Weetabix and other “healthy” foods. Plus, I think because we’re a nation of good walkers and we live in a cool climate, our bodies use up the fat—I assume your comment about CPR was a sly reference to heart attacks and saturated fats and cholesterol.  
>  2\. Some historians may call it a conquest. I say that we assimilated newcomers.  
>  3\. The stapler explains the square bruise on his forehead. But the cause of death was the blow to the back of his head as it hit the corner of his desk. Not sure you can claim premeditated murder there. Don’t say it! I am NOT defending the woman! But as you said, it was probably the first thing to hand. Anyone planning a murder would choose something heavier as a classic “blunt object.”  
>  4\. I DO NOT OGLE!!!!!!!!  
>  R  
> 

Camille giggled. This email definitely needed a reply.

> Good morning!  
>  1\. Glad to hear you’re taking care of your heart.  
>  2\. whatever (sigh)  
>  3\. You’re probably right about premeditation. But she killed him in connection with embezzlement, so I think we can get more than just manslaughter.  
>  4\. That was a joke, right? Because I have seen you OGLE!!!!!!!!  
>  C  
>  p.s. Attached photo is a healthier breakfast. I’ll make a Saint Marie breakfast like this for you when you get home.  
> 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard stopped for a snack in one of the British Museum’s cafés. He’d been walking for two hours. Not walking, shuffling. The Pompeii exhibit had been fascinating, but he’d made slow progress, looking at every exhibit, reading every label. It felt good to sit down. He sipped his tea and fidgeted with his phone. He hated people who sat in public places and were engrossed in their phones. He looked around and saw plenty of them, heads bent, eyes squinting. Ah well, he was on his own, so why not? He smiled when he read Camille’s email. He remembered when she had accused him of ogling Fiona Bruce. And then she’d switched his TV to the French channels, which was bloody unfair, as he had NOT been ogling. 

He opened the attached file. The sharp shadows showed him that it had been a bright, sunny morning. The dishes looked like hand-thrown pottery. That was a surprise. He would have expected Camille to have something minimalist and modern. She had a good eye for composition; the little potted plant on the table was a nice touch. He tapped “reply.”

> Lovely photo. But you cheated on the healthy part. There’s no cream in the coffee or butter on the bread. But I may take you up on the offer anyway.  
>  R  
> 

Richard was tempted to add another sentence. He remembered a line from a movie, where characters talked about having breakfast. It was something like “Will you call me or nudge me?” No, too suggestive. Best to send the message as it was.

-o-o-o-o-

Camille had a busy day. She sent Dwayne to watch the secretary’s house while she and Fidel went to Government House. Fidel arranged for a search warrant and Camille briefed Commissioner Patterson.

“So you see, sir,” Camille concluded, “It has to be the secretary. We just haven’t verified the money trail. We’re hoping there’s another set of books or some bank records at her home. That’s why we’ve requested the search warrant.”

“It does sound likely,” said Patterson. “But what about the wife? She benefits from his death.”

“As it turns out she doesn’t benefit much because the money is gone. And unless she’s an amazing actress, she was very upset to learn of his death. Rich—Inspector Poole says I’m quick to suspect women. And I suppose I am. I can read women pretty well, and there’s something off about the secretary. But I believe the wife is innocent.”

“Hmm, any other possibilities? Anything you might have overlooked that Inspector Poole would have seen?”

“No, sir. The other suspects all have alibis that check out.”

“Very well, Camille. Keep me informed.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Thank you.”

Camille managed to get out of Patterson’s office before she lost her temper. Why did the man think there were things Richard would see that she had missed? Yes, Richard was good. But so was she, dammit! She saw Fidel walking toward her.

“Got it!” he said, waving an envelope.

“Good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Camille. You’re upset. Is the Commissioner still hovering?”

“He asked me if there was anything I could have missed. Something that Richard would have found.”

“The Chief _is_ good at his job.”

“But he doesn’t have superpowers! We’re good, too, Fidel.”

“Yes, we are. So let’s use the warrant and show the big man that we don’t need a superstar DI to solve this case.”

Camille halted for a second.

“Camille?”

“Yeah, coming.” She walked out the door Fidel held for her. She would have liked the Commissioner to have more faith in her. But did she want to prove that they didn’t need Richard? Because she did need him. Well, the team did. Yes, the team needed their Chief.

-o-o-o-o-

Richard caught a train to Audley End, with his arrival timed so that his father could collect him on the way home from work. He watched the commuters pour off the train and walk briskly through the car park, each to his or her own car. A few passengers were collected by spouses or friends, and then Richard was alone. He looked around. Had they enlarged the car park? The footbridge was certainly new. He’d been away a little more than a year, but his hometown seemed unfamiliar. He turned at the sharp sound of a car horn.

Michael Poole stopped the car and opened the boot. Richard tossed his case in and got into the passenger seat.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Richard, how was London? You could have waited and William would have driven you. They’re coming for lunch tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Richard as sincerely as he could, considering he was lying. Changing the subject, he said, “The new car is nice.”

“Yes, got it two months ago. Your mother’s afraid to drive it for fear she’ll scratch it in the car park at Tesco.”

“She told me it’s bigger than the parking bays. And you know how she loves her old Mini.”

“She does. I wish she’d get something newer and more upscale, but she can be stubborn, can your mum.” Mr. Poole pulled into the drive. “Well, here we are. Prepare to be fussed over. She’s been cleaning the house and tidying the garden all week.”

“Richard!” A petite woman with brown hair flew out the front door and launched herself at her son. “How was the trip? The weather’s been frightful, I hope you didn’t catch a chill. You must be so susceptible after all that time in the warm weather. Michael, do grab his case, dear. Now, Richard, you must tell me all about Saint Marie. I hope you brought some pictures.”

Richard just hugged her and let the verbiage wash over him. She’d ask all of her questions again once they got inside.

-o-o-o-o-

By ten PM Richard was exhausted. He had given his parents their souvenirs and explained why rhum agricole was different from the usual rum they found in England. He’d answered questions from his father about the workload (“Highly variable”), the station (“Small and not air-conditioned”), and chances of advancement (“Hard to say, Dad”). He knew his brother would ask that last one at lunch tomorrow. His mother wanted to know about his house, his friends (“Colleagues, Mum”), and why he didn’t have even a bit of a tan. (“Sunscreen, Mum; you know how I burn and freckle”) He begged off showing the photos because, he said, his phone battery was low. 

Finally, Richard managed to excuse himself for bed. When he picked up his phone and laptop, his mother reminded him that he shouldn’t stay up all night reading, the way he did when he was eight. Richard bit back a sigh. To his mother, he’d always be that eight-year-old, reading by torchlight under the covers.

He stretched out on his bed and turned on his laptop. He had received a text from Camille, earlier. He’d felt the phone vibrate and he actually sunk so low as going to the loo in order to read the message in private. She said they’d solved the case and she’d tell him about it later. But the later email hadn’t arrived yet, so he turned off his laptop and went to bed.


	5. Another English Breakfast

“Richard! Breakfast is almost ready.”

“In a minute, Mum,” Richard called down from the upstairs landing. He was the eight-year-old again, wanting to sleep late on a Saturday morning. But he actually hadn’t slept late. He was dressed, but he wanted to check email before braving the family breakfast table. He had been about to click on Camille’s email when his mother called him. He could read quickly, so he opened the email.

> Hurrah!!!!  
>  We did it! The search turned up bank records, and we arrested the secretary. I TOLD you she did it! My triumph in being right would be better if you were here so that I could gloat in person. Only joking. But I am a bit upset about something. Am I being too sensitive? Here’s what happened.  
>  I was updating the Commissioner while Fidel went to ask a judge to sign our search warrant. I explained about our suspect and the Commissioner asked me if there was anything or anyone I might have missed—something YOU would have seen. I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened. You DO see things that I miss. But it hurt that he just assumed it would happen. We had checked all the alibis, chased after the missing money, followed procedure, and we got it done. And still he thought you would have done better. Okay, you’re the DI and I’m only a DS, but I can run an investigation. Maybe you’d have made the arrest earlier, but I DID get the guilty party.  
>  I don’t think it’s because I’m a woman. You probably think I think that, but I really don’t. (Does that sentence make sense??) Maybe it’s because I’m local—but so is the Commissioner, so that shouldn’t be it. Is it because I’m only a DS? Or is it just that I’m not the Great and Powerful All-Seeing Superdetective Inspector Poole?  
>  Oh, God, that sounds so resentful. And I do not resent YOU. I resent the way he thinks nobody can measure up to you. I wasn’t trained by the Met, is that the magic trick? Well, I was trained by the Sûreté, and by God, Richard, they’re as good as the Met.  
>  I’m sorry to rant like this, but the boys say not to let it bother me, and Maman says I’m over-reacting.  
>  I hope you’re enjoying your visit with your family. Don’t forget to show them the pictures!  
>  I wish you were here to say “Pull yourself together, Bordey!”  
>  C  
> 

“Richard!”

He closed the laptop and went down to breakfast, trying to think of a way to answer Camille’s email.

Richard sat down at the table and gasped, “Oh, Mum! I can’t believe you made this!”

Laura Poole put her arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “I know it’s your favorite. And it isn’t every day you come home for a visit.”

“Fatted calf and all that,” said Michael Poole. Laura looked between father and son as she sat down at the table. Michael had passed on that little ironic smile to his son. She knew that Richard felt he had little in common with his father. But they were more alike than he realized.

“Really, Michael!” she said. “He didn’t run off by his own choice. He was sent to the Caribbean.”

“I haven’t lived a profligate life, either,” said Richard.

“I don’t know about that,” said Michael. “You don’t tell us a lot about your life there. I bet you see women in bikinis wherever you go. Must be tempting.”

Richard sighed. “Why does everyone ask me about women in bikinis? I don’t live on a busy beach. The bikini crowd tend to go where there are beach bars. And women don’t walk around Honoré in their beach attire. Just at the beach and, um, on boats.”

Laura could read her son. The _um_ meant something. “What about boats?”

Richard looked at his mother. He’d forgotten how well she could spot a meaningful pause. Might as well tell the story. “When I arrested Camille, she was searching a boat. And wearing a blue bikini. She was—” 

Laura interrupted. “Is this the Camille you work with?” _and mention so often in your emails?_

“Yes, but she was undercover, so I didn’t know she was a detective.”

Michael chuckled, “A bikini doesn’t sound like much cover to be under.”

Richard smiled at the memory. God, the woman had made him uncomfortable. She still did at times. “Now that you mention it, Dad, it wasn’t much cover. But after she tried to swim away, we found an old shirt in the back of the Defender and let her wear that. I think it was Dwayne’s. Here, let me show you my team.”

Richard took out his phone and scrolled through some of the pictures. When he got to the one of Camille, he quickly enlarged it so that only she was visible.

“Speaking of Camille, I need to email her. The commissioner is being a bit imperious, and she could use a little moral support. Thanks for the toad, Mum. I haven’t had that in ages. It’s a nice variation on the fatted calf. Fatted pig, I guess, hmm?”

“Oh, the fatted calf comes later,” said Michael. “Roast beef and all the trimmings for lunch.”

Richard put his hand on his abdomen and groaned, “Oh, God, they’ll charge me overweight fees for the flight home.”

He went upstairs and didn’t see his parents exchange glances.

“He said _home,”_ Laura sniffed.

“I noticed.” Michael picked up Richard’s phone and looked at the picture of Camille. “And I think I know why, even if he doesn’t.”

Laura reached for the phone, but Michael stopped her and turned it off. “Don’t snoop. He’s a big boy, it’s his life.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard reread Camille’s email. He had told the Commissioner that Camille could handle the case. If the man thought Richard was the be-all and end-all of detective work, why didn’t he trust Richard’s opinion of Camille? Richard had been second-guessed enough times in his career that he’d learned to stifle the feelings of disappointment. But he was angry on Camille’s behalf. She deserved better. After much thought, he composed an email.

> Camille,  
>  First, let me say congratulations on closing the case! Well done! I knew you could do it.  
>  I’m disappointed in the commissioner. I told him that you could handle the case. There was no reason for him to doubt you. If he thinks I’m so bloody good, he should have trusted my faith in you. I think his ego feeds off our successes. And because HE arranged for me to be in Saint Marie, he feels that our team’s successes are mine, which makes them his. Does that make sense? I’m like his prize trout, and the rest of you are minnows. It isn’t fair, and I honestly do try to tell him that our successes are just that—OURS, not MINE. But he sees things the way he chooses to. I’m not being dismissive of your feelings—I do understand how you feel. It hurts to be undervalued when you know you’re doing a good job. But try to let it go. You can’t change the way he is, so try not to let it get to you. Just know that I think you’re fantastic, no matter what he says or does.  
>  Do I notice things you miss? Of course I do. And you notice things I miss. We seem to fill in each other’s gaps. Maybe that’s the reason you are the best partner I’ve ever had. So pull yourself together, Bordey. I’ll be back next week and I can’t do my job without you.  
>  Sûreté? Aren’t you a bit young to have been trained by them? I thought they were the National Police now?  
>  On a lighter note, things are fine here. Mum is fussing over me as if I’m eight and just returned home from boarding school. She’s determined to make all of my favorite foods. We had toad in the hole for breakfast! Haven’t had that for ages.  
>  When you returned from Guadeloupe and stayed with your mother, did you feel like a kid again? Last night, when I went up to bed, I took my laptop. Mum told me not to stay up all night reading, just as she did when I was eight (and nine, and ten, and… well, you get the idea). Maybe it’s my childhood possessions. I’m in my old bedroom, with my old books and notebooks on the shelves. My little microscope is still in its box on my desk. Ever since I went off to boarding school, I’ve spent less time in my room at home than I have other places. So I guess the room didn’t grow up along with me. It’s, I don’t know, _alien_ is the closest I can come up with. Maybe it’s the lack of a tree in my room? And no lizard dashing about.  
>  R  
>  p.s. I took the attached photo in the British Museum. I finally found something good to do with a cat!  
> 

-o-o-o-o-

Camille sat on the veranda of Richard’s house and read his email for the third time. After she sent her email, she’d wished she could have taken it back. It was unprofessional to rant like that, and Richard was her boss. But he was her friend, too, and she had the feeling he hadn’t always been happy at work. She thought maybe he’d understand how she felt. And he had. She wanted to reply, but didn’t know how to say how much it meant to her that he’d been so supportive and reassuring. She hated to sound weak like some helpless tragic female. She was a police detective, for goodness sake, not some schoolgirl moping because she didn’t get to be queen of the spring fête. 

But Richard had said she was the best partner he’d ever had. He said “thank you” and “well done” to them all the time. He was a good boss that way. But this was so much more. Camille wished he was there so she could thank him in person and—as much as he’d probably hate it—give him a big hug. She clicked “reply” and after lots of deleting and rewriting, she had the message she needed to send.

> THANK YOU!!!!!  
>  It means so much to me to know that you think I’m a good detective. The commissioner made me feel like an understudy. You know, she goes on instead of the star, and you can hear the audience sigh in disappointment and whisper “She’ll never be as good as so-and-so.” Thank you for being so understanding.  
>  Yes, I was trained by the Police nationale. (The name was changed in the 1960s) But I like to say Sûreté because it has such a history to it. Plus I love the sound of it; it sounds more important somehow.  
>  When I stayed with Maman last year, I didn’t feel like a child. But I had redecorated my room many times as I grew up. Maybe it’s because that’s what girls do. (I can’t picture an eight-year-old you agonizing over paint colors and curtains!) Maybe it’s because I lived in my room full time, not just on school holidays. I can’t imagine sending a child of eight away to live at school. I wouldn’t do that to a child of mine.  
>  You get upset at seafood with eyes, but you eat TOADS???? For BREAKFAST???? You English are soooo strange!!!  
>  C  
>  p.s. You do know that the Egyptians worshipped cats, right? That mummified cat may have been a goddess!!  
>  p.p.s. Were there any lizard mummies? (Harry wants to know)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo Richard sends from the British Museum is of a cat mummy. The display includes other mummified animals. IIRC, there’s a small croc and also a snake. But no little lizard like Harry.


	6. Saturday Lunch

Lunch went as Richard had expected. His brother William and wife Samantha arrived right on time, bearing expensive bottles of wine. After the initial greetings were over, William excused himself to check messages. Michael announced that he was going to experiment with a cocktail made from rhum agricole.

“Not the traditional lime, please, Dad.” said Richard.

“No, pineapple and whatever other fruit juice your mother has on hand.”

“What’s rhum agricole?” asked Samantha.

“Caribbean rum, made with cane sugar,” Richard answered.

“Oh, none for me, then. Too much sugar isn’t good for you.”

Richard contemplated explaining that the fermentation process consumed the sugar, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Instead he enquired after his nephew. He knew his family were proud to have a third generation of Pooles attending Saint Matthew. 

“He’s doing brilliantly! He’s a prefect, and very good at it. And he’s a star at maths.”

“That’s good.” Weak answer, but Richard couldn’t come up with a follow-up question, and the only comment that sprang to mind was that the math skills must have come from the Poole genes. He had to suppress a smile at the thought of the Poole gene pool.

William dropped into an armchair. “I think that’s tomorrow sorted. Big golf game with a client. Hoping to clinch a big deal.”

Michael appeared with drinks. 

“What the hell is that?” asked William, who believed that the only decent drink was a dry martini.

“I made cocktails with the rum Richard brought.”

“So we’re going native, are we?” The scorn in William’s tone was palpable.

“Not exactly,” said Richard. “The locals drink it with lime juice. Mostly rum, a little ice, a little lime. This is Dad’s concoction and I take no responsibility for it beyond supplying the ethanol. But on the subject of going native, as you put it, I have a souvenir for you.” 

William looked at the voodoo amulet and pulled a face. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s for good luck.”

“It’s hideous.”

“Don’t insult voodoo, William.”

“You don’t believe in that crap, surely?”

“You never know,” Richard replied with a smile and a lift of his eyebrows, enjoying the confusion on his brother’s face. He accepted the drink his father held out, and was surprised to see that his father was having a difficult time stifling laughter. Whether it was solidarity with his father or with his friends on Saint Marie, Richard wasn’t sure, but he was determined to like the drink. He took a sip and smiled. It really was delicious.

“This is good! Write down what’s in it and I’ll give the recipe to Catherine.”

“Is she your girlfriend?” Samantha asked.

“No, she’s the mother of my DS. Catherine runs a bar. It’s the team’s… I guess you could say La Kaz is our local.” Richard smiled. He’d never thought of La Kaz that way. A “local” was always a pub, at least in London. But La Kaz was their place to go. He could imagine the team test-tasting “Rhum Poole” on a sunny afternoon. 

Laura had outdone herself, with a beautiful roast beef and perfectly puffed Yorkshire pudding. Everything was delicious and Richard toasted his mother, saying, “Who needs that Ramsay guy when we have the best cook in England!”

“Indeed we do!” Michael replied.

Samantha nodded, a bit put out that _she_ hadn’t been declared the best cook, even though she hated cooking. William had his head down, reading a text. 

Richard noticed that William kept his phone by his plate all through lunch, and had sent at least four texts during the meal, ignoring everyone at the table. When Laura suggested they retire to the living room to have coffee and biscuits in a more relaxed setting, Richard chose a seat near William. Richard had rarely bothered to challenge his elder brother as they were growing up, but today he was too annoyed to stay silent. As they left the dining room, he turned on his phone and sent Camille a quick text: _text me! anything, be quick_

“So, William, Samantha says Mikey is doing well in school.” Richard held his phone at his side where it couldn’t be seen, while mentally begging Camille to respond to his text.

“He prefers to be called Michael now he’s older.”

“Ah, of course. Is he playing sports?”

“Yes, he’s excellent at football, and he’s bowling on his year’s cricket team…”

William nattered on about his son’s athletic prowess. Richard’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up and read the text. Camille had texted: _what? why?_

“…of course the other team…”

Richard glanced at his brother, and then reread Camille’s text. He replied: _pissing off big brother_

“…but then Michael—Richard! Are you paying any attention?”

“Hmm? Course I am. Michael is a star bowler and the other team was crap. Close enough?” Richard smiled as his phone buzzed again. Camille had texted: _sounds fun!_

Richard typed: _it is_

“Damn it, Richard! I’m talking to you.”

“Not so pleasant when the shoe is on the other foot, is it William? This is what you did all through lunch. You were unspeakably rude to Mum and Dad. I don’t care if you’re rude to me, and I suppose you do this to Samantha all the time. But Mum made a lovely dinner and you didn’t even thank her. You were too busy with your bloody phone!”

William was shocked. He couldn’t remember seeing Richard so argumentative since they were little boys. This must be part of his cop mode. Or…

“Do you always get this nasty when you drink rum?”

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m making a point the only way I could think of. A taste of your own medicine.” Richard’s phone buzzed again, but he ignored it.

“Well, my texts were important. Big—”

“Big deal, big client, I know. My texts were important, too. My DS needed my authorization on something.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Criminals don’t keep bankers’ hours, William.” Richard rose and looked down at his brother. “At least, not all of them.” 

Richard turned to go to the kitchen to see if he could be of help to his mother, although Samantha was already there, trying to be a dutiful daughter-in-law. He saw his father standing in the doorway. Michael was looking at him oddly.

“Sorry, Dad,” Richard said softly as he passed his father.

“Don’t be,” was the surprising reply.

Richard’s phone buzzed again. He didn’t look at it. Michael winked and said softly, “Tell her she can stop now.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille frowned at her phone. Richard’s last text was: 

_Thanks, all done now. Explanation later._

What was he up to? “Explanation later” probably meant an email. That wouldn’t happen for a while, so she went to La Kaz to visit her mother. 

“Hello, ma chère!” Catherine hugged her daughter. “Have you heard from Richard?”

“Yes. It sounds as if he’s gorging on English food. Take a look at this breakfast!” Camille showed the photo of the fry-up.

“Is that coffee in that large glass, or—no! Is that stout?”

“It’s stout.”

“Oh! Those English!” Catherine exclaimed. “Savages! The only acceptable alcohol for breakfast is champagne! Or maybe rum, if it’s mixed with juice.”

“And he had something called toad in the hole for another breakfast. Have you ever heard of that?”

“That sounds disgusting! Although we do eat des cuisses des grenouilles. But not for breakfast.”

Camille laughed. “It isn’t really toad. I looked it up. It’s sausages cooked in Yorkshire pudding batter. They sort of peek out from the Yorkshire pudding, like a toad peeking out of its burrow. It actually sounds good; too bad about the name, though.”

-o-o-o-o-

After a pleasant lunch with her mother, Camille went home and checked her email. Richard’s email was very long. He’d described the meal and his brother’s use of the phone. The texts Richard had sent were so short that she’d thought he was just teasing his brother, winding him up. But the email made it clear that Richard had been angry. The last two paragraphs of the email were surprising.

> So then Dad said, “Tell her she can stop now.” I was surprised. I mean, I’d told William that you were texting me to get authorization for something, but that didn’t mean it really was you. Dad said he knew it was you because you were the person I’d go to if I needed help with something. And it’s true. I could have texted the boys, or even just texted one of those services that texts back bus routes or the time of day. But it never occurred to me to do any of that. I guess that’s what partners do, help each other out. So thanks, partner! We gave my brother the kick in the arse that he needed.  
>  I know the smartphone is a wonderful invention. Texts and email on the phone are a great convenience. And certainly, the capabilities of our phones help us in our work. But we aren’t glued to them all the time. In London, the things are everywhere—people use them in the Tube, on busses, in museums, in restaurants, walking down the street. It’s a miracle there aren’t more people knocking each other down because they aren’t looking where they’re going. But the part that bothers me most is the rudeness, like William today. And also the way we interact with a DEVICE more than PEOPLE. Nobody says good morning in an elevator, or excuse me if they bump into you. They just keep looking at their bloody phones. We’re losing contact with other people, losing the ability to interact. By “we” I mean the human race, not us specifically. I’d say it’s a city thing, but I think it’s out here in the suburbs, too. It isn’t like that on Saint Marie. I hadn’t thought about it, but people still LOOK at each other. Everyone in Honoré says good morning and hello. I’ll confess that it took me aback at first—I felt that strangers were accosting me. But now I’m so used to it that I miss it. Isn’t it strange that the more people there are in a place, the more isolated they are?  
>  R  
> 

Camille had to smile at Richard’s comments on isolation. He’d always seemed to be isolated, self-contained. He had relaxed a bit in his time on Saint Marie. He still wasn’t good at small talk with the vendors in the market, but at least he said hello and bought from them now. What struck Camille as odd was how someone so closed off in person could be so open about his feelings and opinions when he was communicating electronically. She felt closer to him after a few days of emailing than she had after working with him for a year. She wondered if he’d still be this ready to share his feelings when they met in person again.

Camille looked at the clock and calculated the time difference. It was tempting to phone Richard. She could hear his voice in her head when she read his emails, but it would be nice to hear his voice for real. Then again, they were doing so well with email and text, maybe she shouldn’t change things. So she wrote an email.

> Hello (it’s much late for good morning),  
>  Your brother and his wife sound charming. Did she REALLY think that rum made from cane sugar was still full of sugar? I have to ask—is she blonde? ;-)  
>  I’m glad I could help you annoy your brother. It does sound like he needed it. But I wonder if I might know why he did what he did. He was showing off, showing you how Very Important he is, right? But think about it. The lunch was for YOU, because YOU had come home for a visit. I know you think he’s your father’s favorite, but William may have been resentful because all of a sudden you were the focus of the attention. It’s like the story of the prodigal son, you know? He comes home and there’s a celebration. The one who was there all the time doesn’t get a party. I’m not saying your brother was right to behave badly, just suggesting a possible reason. NOT an excuse, just an explanation.  
>  So good on you for calling him on his behavior. And good on your father for not taking William’s side! I think it’s cute that he was sure I was the one texting you. But, as you said, we ARE partners. I’ve got your back, Richard. Always will.  
>  Don’t forget the drink recipe. I don’t think Rhum Poole is a good name. It slurs into Rumple, and people might think it’s short for Rumpelstiltskin. How about Rhum Richard? (pronounced “Reeshard” of course!)  
>  Bonne nuit!  
>  C  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuisses des grenouilles is frog’s legs.


	7. So Many "Perfect" Women

Sunday was quiet. The three Pooles went to church. A surprising number of members of the congregation recognized Richard. Apparently, his mother had bragged about his position as Chief of Police. He politely accepted congratulations on his promotion. He also received numerous offers of introductions to daughters, nieces, and even one granddaughter.

On their way home, Richard said, “I lost count. How many women are perfect for me?”

“You only need to find one, dear,” his mother replied.

“Looking for that one is supposed to be fun,” his father said. “I think. It’s been a long time, so I don’t remember.”

Laura Poole swatted her husband’s arm. “You’re supposed to say that it’s fun looking but MORE FUN after you find the one.”

“Sorry, dear, of course you’re right. Ever so much more fun being married. Sooo much fun raising kids, paying for their schools, paying the mortgage, mowing the grass, shoveling the snow. Bliss.”

From the back seat, Richard listened to his parents banter. His memories of them didn’t include this kind of playful attitude. Perhaps their marriage was better than he’d always thought. He hoped so. It gave him hope for the future—maybe marriage wasn’t as impossible as he thought. Then he laughed.

“Come on, Dad. Admit it. You got lucky with Mum. You could have found someone like Samantha.” Richard changed his voice to a high pitch, “Oh, no, there’s too much sugar in rhum agricole.”

Both parents laughed, and Michael said, “I expected you to launch into a lecture about fermentation.”

“I thought about it, but I figured she’d just sit there and roll her eyes the way Camille does when I explain things,” Richard replied. He noticed his parents share a significant look at that remark, but had no idea why.

Richard spent Sunday afternoon reading the newspaper, packing, and admiring his father’s new garden shed, which replaced the aging successor to the shed that had lost its roof during the storm of ’87.

In the evening, a few neighbors dropped by for a visit. Once Richard realized he wasn’t going to be offered any more daughters or nieces or granddaughters, he relaxed and enjoyed the evening. He looked around the room at his parents and their friends, and wondered how it would be to live in England again. As one of the women walked by in her outfit of plaid skirt and brown jumper, he tried to picture Camille dressed that way. But the picture wouldn’t hold, and instead he found himself imagining Camille in bright green jeans and flowered shirt sitting among the plaid-and-jumper set. He suddenly realized how out of place he must look on Saint Marie, in his English woolen suits and properly knotted ties. 

He shook off these thoughts as he realized the gathering was breaking up. He stood and joined his parents at the door, saying their goodnights. Richard and Michael cleared away glasses while Laura began the washing-up in the kitchen.

“You wandered off a bit toward the end,” Michael said. “Anything wrong?”

“No, just wool-gathering. I never thought England would seem unfamiliar to me, but it does. Sometimes I’m not sure where I belong. Sorry, I don’t mean to be, you know…”

“It’s all right. You’ll figure it out. Don’t feel you need to cling to your past to be yourself. If you care for… If you think you’ll be happy on Saint Marie, you’re not abandoning us or the life you lived here. Look at it as moving on to the next part of your life. Saint Marie has been good for you, I think. It’s a bit late to be saying this, Richard. But know that I’ll support whatever you choose to do. I’ll help Mum with the washing-up. You go on upstairs.” 

“Goodnight, Dad. Thanks.”

Richard lay awake thinking about what his father had said. It was strange, but the longer he stayed away from Saint Marie, the more he missed it. But when he was on Saint Marie, he’d missed England. Was he destined to always want to be somewhere other than where he was? To want things he couldn’t have? And would a few days more in London help him decide what he wanted?

Richard turned on his laptop, but there were no new emails. He started an email to Camille, but couldn’t find a way to say how he was feeling. It always came out sounding like, “Dear Camille, I’m confused.” In the end, he decided on something light,

> Camille,  
>  I’m going back to London tomorrow to escape the throngs of “perfect” women lurking somewhere in the vicinity. It seems EVERY friend of my mother knows someone who is THE woman for me. You didn’t know I was such a great catch, did you? Or, more likely, there is a large population of desperate “singletons” in Essex. If I stay here much longer, they’ll be setting up blind dates. If I ever made fun of your mother’s matchmaking, I take it all back. At least I didn’t get any comments about grandchildren. That’s one good thing my brother has done, take the pressure off by producing a grandson.  
>  Forgot to tell you, Mum loved the hummingbird. So thank you for your shopping assistance.  
>  I’ll get Dad to write down the drink recipe tomorrow before I leave. Am I the first detective on Saint Marie to have a drink named after him?  
>  Bonne nuit,  
>  Reeshard


	8. Goodbye, Home

Michael had arranged to have Monday morning off from work so that he could take Richard to the train and, as he said to his son, “Mop up the flood of tears after you’ve left.”

Laura sniffled and reminded Richard to take his vitamins and remember his sunscreen. Richard hugged her and told her he’d try to call and write more often. 

At the train station, Michael pulled into a parking bay and turned off the engine. Richard was surprised when his father walked to the platform with him. A train had just left, so the station was fairly quiet. Richard tried to find something to say.

“Thanks, Dad. It was good to see you and Mum again. I’m sorry it was so long since I was here last.”

“I understand. You don’t get a lot of time off. And it’s a hell of a long trip, isn’t it? I suppose your mother is going to pester me to take her to visit you.” Michael smiled at his son. “You’re going to stay there, aren’t you?”

“I think so. It’s hard to explain. I know I’d be more likely to advance my career in London, but…”

“It’s all right. Career and money aren’t everything. I think they drive William too hard. I was proud of you Saturday, when you set him down about that bloody phone. I was going to have a word with him about it, but you handled it perfectly. I—” He was interrupted by the noise of the arriving train.

“Here’s my train,” said Richard.

Uncharacteristically, his father hugged him and said, “I’m proud of you, son, whatever you choose to do. I love you.”

Richard felt tears prick his eyes. He blinked them back and said, “I love you, too, Dad.” 

Richard grabbed his case and got on the train just seconds before it pulled out of the station. By the time he was able to get to a window and wave, the station was out of sight. At each stop, more commuters boarded the train. Grey suits, black overcoats, an occasional maverick with a red scarf. But mostly the people around him were grey. And so was the sky. 

He took out his phone and scrolled through the photos Camille had taken. Was the sky really that blue? And the sun that bright? And the marketplace so colorful? He sent a text to Camille: _Haven’t seen the sun in a week. Think I may start taking vitamin D tablets._

Richard tried to read the paper, but couldn’t concentrate. He stared out the window, watching fields and villages give way to suburban sprawl. Richard hadn’t taken time to check email from his parent’s house, so he checked it on his phone during the train ride. He was pleased to find an email from Camille.

> Richard,  
>  Have you made your escape? I have this image of you running down the street, pursued by a crowd of women, all in wedding gowns and clutching bouquets. I think I may have seen that in a movie? Anyway, I hope you’re still single and coming back to us soon.  
>  Enjoy your time in London. Don’t forget to take pictures to show us when you get back. (something other than food, please!)  
>  C  
> 

Richard chuckled at the image Camille had planted in his head. He’d probably have a nightmare like that. He looked again at the people on the train and had to stifle a laugh. He wrote a brief reply. 

> Camille,  
>  Thank you SO much for that scary image. If I have nightmares, it will be your fault!  
>  Still single, but wondering if some woman on the train is about to rip off her coat to reveal a wedding gown and pull a bouquet out of her briefcase.  
>  Wish you were here to protect me. You could take any of them in a fistfight!  
>  R

In London, Richard hung back to allow the commuters to rush off the train. He checked into a small hotel near the station and thought about what to do with his day. With no particular plan in mind, he wandered toward the river. He took a detour through Leadenhall Market, enjoying the contrast of the Victorian ironwork of the market and the hideousness that was the Lloyd’s building.

He wandered toward the Tower of London, remembering to take some pictures to show the team. He walked across Tower Bridge and stood at the railing, looking at the river. It was cold and damp. Couldn’t the sun shine for one day while he was here? Just one day, would that be too much to ask? 

Tea would warm him, he decided, so he looked for a café. Starbucks! Good Lord, they were everywhere. And as he looked around, he noticed that half the people on the street were carrying their cups. He was glad that Saint Marie had decided not to allow any chain restaurants. Yes, there were some hotel chains. But no Starbucks, no KFC, no McDonald’s or any other burger chains. It gave the independent restaurant owners, like Catherine, a fighting chance at survival. Resolutely, he walked on, determined to find an independent. He did, and was rewarded with excellent tea and a freshly toasted tea cake. 

While he sipped his tea, he took out his phone and checked his email. He hated that he was getting so attached to electronic communication, but as he was alone, at least he wasn’t being rude to anyone. Camille had sent an email, with a picture of Harry as an attachment.

> Hi Richard!  
>  Camille has been taking very good care of me. She comes to the house every day and fills my water bowl. Sometimes she brings me mangoes. I don’t always show up to say hello. I’m YOUR lizard, not hers.  
>  So please come home soon. I miss you!  
>  XOXO  
>  Harry  
>  p.s. It’s sunny here!

Richard tapped “reply.” He kept the message short.

> I miss you, too! See you soon,  
>  R  
> 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard wandered around some more. He thought about visiting his old station again. But there was nobody there he really wanted to see. None of the other detectives had been friends. If he was honest, he’d have to say that many disliked him. He decided to go to his old “local,” the White Hart. There was a new bartender. Richard saw a few familiar faces, nodding acquaintances, really. He had a beer, sitting by himself in the snug. He took a few pictures, then sent a text. 

The same text went to all three team members: _Having a pint at my old local. NO Corsaire, no Carib. Horrors!_

Apparently, it was a light day for crime on Saint Marie, because they all responded quickly.

From Camille: _Don’t they have tea? :-o_

From Fidel: _I’ll tell cthrn to save some 4 u._

From Dwayne: _come back soon chief. beers on fidel!_

Richard smiled at the messages. He could picture them sitting at their desks, toward the end of the day, tying up loose ends. They were probably about to head to Catherine’s bar for a cold beer. He’d never thought he could learn to drink beer ice cold. But in the tropics, it was refreshing. He looked out the window. It was raining. Again. How long since he’d seen the sun? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it. Imagine them, sitting at a table in the afternoon sun. Imagine her, head tilted back, laughing at somebody’s joke. 

And where was he? By himself in a dark pub on a dreary evening. Actually, except for the few days with his family, he’d been by himself all the time. He used to be satisfied with his own company. Somehow, it had ceased to be enough.

Richard finished his beer and returned to his hotel. Alone. As always. He turned on his laptop, even though it was unlikely there’d be any new emails. His team had more to do than think about keeping him company. Still, he could reread the emails Camille had sent over the past week.

But there was a new email. Camille had sent it from her phone. It just said “Open this file!” It was a video file, which was unusual. As he debated opening it, his phone vibrated. A text from Camille:

_Chk yr email!_

So he clicked on the file. Dwayne must have been holding Camille’s phone at arm’s length so all three team members fit in the frame. They held up china cups and in perfect unison shouted, “WE MISS YOU!” Then the phone looked up at the sky. Richard heard Dwayne set down his cup and say, “OK, now where’s the beer?” Then Richard heard Camille’s voice say, “It’s still on, give me that!” A hand blocked the screen, and the clip ended.

He smiled and said, “I miss you, too.”

A half hour later, having reread all of the emails he and Camille had sent each other, Richard was about to shut down his browser. But instead, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous moment, he decided to look at one more website.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you to Isailaway, whose comment on chapter 6 caused me to have Richard re-read all the emails.


	9. Dubai?

As of last night, when Richard checked the flight online, space appeared to be available. He went to Heathrow several hours early in order to change his flight in person. He showed his credentials and explained that he was cutting his holiday short because he was needed at his station. The desk agent was uncertain. 

“You’re an English policeman and you work in the Caribbean?”

Richard tried charm. He wasn’t usually good at it, but he smiled and said, “It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. You could call the Commissioner on Saint Marie, but with the time zones, he’d not be pleased. However, if you want to call the Met to verify my assignment, I can give you a contact there.” In the end, the woman believed him and made the change without penalty fees.

Richard did a little shopping, used his police credentials to get through security quickly, and then did some more shopping. His carryon bags were loaded with “survival” essentials and a few souvenirs. He went to the pub for one last pint and a snack. He read through the emails again. Suddenly, he began to wonder if he’d read too much into them. 

Camille had trusted him enough to vent her frustration over the Commissioner’s doubts. She knew she didn’t have to say “please don’t tell anyone.” He’d keep her confidence. But he knew her temper. Maybe she was just venting without thinking. She did that sometimes. Usually, Richard mused, she vented _about_ him _to_ him, not to a third party. But then she’d said that his good opinion of her meant a lot. He’d been pleased that his message had reassured her.

Camille had also said she had Richard’s back and always would. But they were partners, and good at it, so backing each other up came with the job. Perhaps that was all it was. And “I miss you” came from Harry. Well, okay, not really. But was she using Harry as an excuse to say that, or did she think the lizard missed him? And did she know his “I miss you, too” was meant for her, not Harry? 

Maybe it had been a mistake to change his travel plans. Richard had absolutely no idea what he would say to explain it. The realization that he had no long-term plan made him nervous. What if he was rushing back to something that wasn’t really there? What if one look at Camille sent him back to his usual awkwardness and this oxymoron of long-distance closeness was ruined? Richard glanced at his watch, wondering if there was time for another pint. Before he could worry any more about his decision to return early, his flight was called. No changing his mind now.

-o-o-o-o-

On Saint Marie, it was another hot and sunny morning. Camille’s new morning routine was to turn on her computer before making coffee. She didn’t know which made her more impatient, waiting for the water to boil or waiting for her computer to be ready. Because of the time difference, she’d had a new email waiting for her every morning since Richard left. But this morning, there was nothing. Disappointed and distracted, she nearly forgot to press the plunger before pouring her coffee. 

Camille sipped her coffee and read through Richard’s emails. He’d replied to Harry’s email to say “I miss you, too.” She hoped she was included in that “you.” She made a mental note to pick up a fresh mango for Harry and clicked “check mail” again. But there was no new message. She checked the world weather website. Poor Richard, it was going to be cloudy again. She smiled when she remembered how last week’s emails full of joy at drizzly mornings had changed to this week’s moaning about the grey skies. 

She took her coffee out to her little patio and looked down at Honoré and its harbor. Sunlight sparkled on the water and made the white hulls of sailboats gleam. On mornings like this, she felt she was living in a picture post card. That gave her an idea. She pulled her phone out of her pocked and took a picture of the view. She sent it to Richard with a brief message:

“If you want some sunshine, it’s waiting for you here.”

-o-o-o-o-

Richard boarded the plane and stowed his carry-ons in the overhead bin. A tin of tea fell out. The flight attendant picked it up and handed it to him.

“Let me help you get that closed,” she said. “Goodness, sir, that’s a lot of tea and biscuits to take on holiday.”

“No, I’m not going on holiday. This is to stock my larder. I’m on my way home. It’s a small island, not much in the way of English foods.”

“Well, we have lovely English tea for the flight, so I hope you will enjoy it.”

As soon as they took off, Richard regretted his decision to change flights. Why, oh why, did he get the kicking kid in the row behind him? Slightly better than a crying baby, he supposed. The woman next to him looked as if she was about to start a conversation. He picked up the book he’d bought and started to read.

They took off late, had to fly around thunderstorms, and finally landed in Guadeloupe quite late, leaving Richard with a tight connection to his flight to Saint Marie. Because of the last-minute flight change in London, he had to collect his case in Guadeloupe, then gate-check it for the smaller plane to Saint Marie. He waited for what seemed like an hour, although it was only ten minutes. Luggage began to appear, a case or two at a time. _Please let mine be next_ he thought over and over again. But no, his case didn’t show up. When it was clear that no more luggage would be arriving, he went to the customer service desk to find out what had happened. 

Richard stood in line for what seemed like two hours, but was really only fifteen minutes. He showed the agent his claim ticket and asked where his case was. Lots of mouse clicks, some typing, and more mouse clicks revealed nothing. 

“It isn’t here, sir.”

“Yes,” said Richard, trying to avoid snapping. “I know that. All of the luggage from my flight has been unloaded and mine is not there. So now the issue seems to be figuring out where it is.”

“Sorry, sir, let me see what I can find out.”

The agent disappeared into an office for what seemed like three hours, but was really only a few minutes. By the time the agent came out again, Richard’s patience had reached its limit.

“Let me guess,” he said. “It’s still at Heathrow.”

“No, sir. We checked and it isn’t there. It seems to have got on the wrong plane.”

_Fabulous, bloody fabulous._ “And where is it?” 

“We think it’s in Dubai.”

“Dubai? Could this be the Dubai in the Virgin Islands? The Dubai in Texas?”

Sarcasm was wasted on the agent. “No sir, Dubai is in the UAE.”

“Right,” Richard sighed. “What do I have to do to get it delivered to me?”

“It should be here in a day or two. We will call you and you can claim it. Just fill out these forms.”

“Yes, I will fill out your forms. But I expect you to deliver it to Saint Marie, which is my final destination.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Your luggage was checked only to Guadeloupe.”

“That’s because your bloody system wouldn’t let me check it through to Saint Marie.”

“I’m sorry sir. Those are the rules. We’re only responsible for the route you’ve checked through.”

“Fine, whatever. Give me the forms.” Richard looked at his watch. The plane to Saint Marie was leaving in one minute. “And can you tell me when the next flight to Saint Marie leaves? I’ve just missed the one I was supposed to take.”

“Yes, sir. It leaves at ten o’clock.”

Richard looked at his watch again. “Good, I’ll be able to make that.”

“Uh, sir? That’s ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Richard growled and completed the form. Muttering, he picked up his carry-ons and walked to the Information desk.

“Can I help you sir?” a perky young lady smiled up at Richard.

He sighed, “I do hope so. Can you tell me when the next ferry leaves for Saint Marie?”

The young lady looked at a schedule and said, “The last ferry of the day leaves in a half hour.”

Richard had a vague idea of the location of the Guadeloupe airport in relation to the ferry dock, and he knew a half hour would be tough to manage. He hated pulling rank and using his authority, but he wanted to go home. Tonight. NOW.

“Right. Where is the nearest police officer? Not airport security. Real police.”

“They have an office at the other end of the concourse,” she pointed vaguely.

“Thank you.” Richard stalked off in the direction she indicated.

Richard showed his credentials and got the attention of a uniformed sergeant. 

“I need you to hold the Saint Marie ferry until I can get there.”

“I’m not sure I can do that, sir.”

“Yes, you can. You pick up that phone and you call the harbormaster. You tell him that the Honoré Chief of Police has to get home tonight. I’ve cut my holiday in England short to get back there.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but I’m not sure I have the authority.”

Richard pulled out his phone. “I hate to do this, but I can call the Commissioner of Police on Saint Marie. He will call your commissioner, who will then call you. And all that will do is annoy both commissioners, make the ferry later, and inconvenience passengers even more. Make. The. Call.” Richard started scrolling through his contacts, and the sergeant placed the call.

Richard managed to get a taxi, and arrived at the ferry only ten minutes late. He showed his credentials to the harbormaster, who was standing at the gangway. He thanked the man for his help and boarded the ferry. A few people looked at him inquiringly, wondering who he was and how he’d been able to have the ferry delayed like that. He went up to the top deck and sat on a bench. He loosened his tie and tried to relax. 

People slowly filed off the ferry in Honoré, and by the time Richard got off, there were no taxis. He called a service he’d used before and they promised a taxi “soon.” After what seemed like four hours, but was really twenty minutes, Richard was ready to walk up the hill to the station and sleep in a cell. He was about to head in that direction when his taxi arrived.


	10. Home, Sweet Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my original ending. It already had one of Isailaway's suggestions. (great minds, etc)

The taxi dropped Richard off at the end of the path to his house. He walked along the path and then stopped abruptly. He couldn’t believe his eyes! Lights were on, windows were open. Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse, fate found a way to prove him wrong. Squatters? Burglars? 

He reached for his phone to call for help. But first, he thought, a bit of reconnaissance might be in order. So he stayed in the shadows and approached the house. The television was on, and appeared to be showing a program in French. That really was the limit! But something was odd. He couldn’t see anyone moving around. He crept around the side of the house and listened beneath a window. All he could hear was the television. And yes, dammit, it was in French. 

If he hadn’t come back early, Richard might have thought it was a practical joke—undoubtedly led by Camille. Who else would change his television to French? But there was no reason for anyone to be here tonight. Perhaps whoever had broken in was now thoroughly stoned or drunk and sleeping it off. He decided to risk entering the house on his own.

The back door was unlocked. From what Richard could see in the dim light, it didn’t appear to have been forced. The lock was probably fairly easy to pick. And, really, the whole house was less than secure. It wouldn’t have been all that difficult to break in. He stood in the kitchen, listening for any sound other than the television. For a crazy minute, he thought the lizard had figured out a way to work the remote. 

_You’re sane, you’re a copper. Harry did not do this. Think! Focus!_ Richard told himself. He tiptoed up the stairs and nearly stumbled when he saw his bed. There was Camille, stretched across the foot of the bed. Accustomed to murders as he was, Richard had a moment of panic. _Oh, God, let her please just be sleeping!_

“Camille?” he said softly. He reached for her neck to check her pulse. When he touched her, she reached up and wrapped her hand around his.

“Richard?” she mumbled. “S’late. Come to bed.” And she burrowed into the pillow and sighed.

Richard stood still, trying to work out the scene of the… well, not crime. Evidence suggested that Camille had been watching his television and had fallen asleep. Her breathing was regular, she didn’t appear drunk. Means and opportunity? Easy, she had access to a key. Motive? He had asked her to check on his house. But all that required was a few minutes to do a walk-through, check the plants, set out water for Harry. So why stay and watch his television? And why lie across his bed, snuggled up to his pillow?

As she fell deeper into sleep, her hand relaxed, and he gently withdrew his hand. She murmured his name again, and he figured it out. She had missed him! If he woke her now, she’d deny it. She’d say it had been a long day, she was tired, or that her own television wasn’t working right. The sort of avoidance thing he’d been doing for quite a while. 

Ironic, Richard thought, they’d been more open with each other when they were thousands of miles apart, communicating only by words on a screen. But the knowledge that she did care gave him hope and a little courage. Perhaps… but not tonight. He’d let her save face. 

Richard tiptoed out of the house and walked to the shelter of the trees. He took out his phone and made the call.

“Hello?” said a groggy Camille. Richard could picture her pushing her hair back and getting her bearings.

“Camille? Sorry to call so late. I’m worried about my house. Was everything all right the last time you were there?”

“Uhhhh, yes. Fine.”

“You see, the thing is, I think I’ve been burgled.”

That sentence brought Camille back to being fully awake. Who could have noticed the lights and called him? The boys wouldn’t have called. She’d told them she was trying to give the house a bit of “presence,” so someone casing it wouldn’t think it was empty all the time. 

“Why do you think that?” she asked.

“The lights are on, and I think the television is on.” 

“What?” she squeaked. “Where are you?”

“Behind the house, back in the shelter of the trees.” Despite his earlier decision to let her save face, Richard had to have a little fun with Camille. So he said, “I can’t see how many there are, so I’m going to call for backup before I go in.”

_MERDE!_ Camille almost shouted it out loud. “No! Maybe I left a light on when I was there checking on the house earlier.”

Richard could see her silhouette in the window. She straightened the bed. Then she appeared to be looking for something, probably her shoes. Was she going to sneak out? Oh, this was way too much fun!

“And the television?” he asked, creeping closer to the house. 

_DOUBLE MERDE!_ Where was the remote? “Umm, mine isn’t working, and I watched yours for a bit. Then, uh, Dwayne called with a problem on a case and I ran out in a hurry. I don’t think I left it on, though.” Camille clicked the remote. She was babbling now, trying to listen for him to enter through the kitchen. She had to time the run down the veranda steps just right. 

Richard tossed a few pebbles toward the kitchen door. Camille heard the sound and made her move. He made his move, too, blocking her path at the base of the steps. 

“Oof!” she ran into him. Richard grasped her shoulders to steady her. 

“Hi, I’m home,” he said with a smirk. 

“Richard! I was trying to, you know, make the house seem lived in,” she said. The words came out in a rush as she tried to explain herself. “So I came out here a couple of times, watched television for a while—I’ll change it back, I promise—and I moved the veranda chairs a bit, little things so that if someone was casing the house it wouldn’t seem so empty. I guess I fell asleep watching television. You’re early, did something happen?”

Camille’s story was full of holes, and they both knew it. If she’d been a suspect, he could have broken her story with just a few questions. But Richard decided he’d had his bit of fun, so he let it go. Although Camille didn’t need steadying any longer, Richard had kept his hands on her shoulders. He slid his hands down to her upper arms. 

“I ran out of things to do in London, so I changed flights and came home early.” _Home,_ he thought. He’d said it twice now. It felt good. It felt right. He thought he’d been going home when he went to England. But it wasn’t home without Camille. 

“Welcome home, Richard. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Oh, what the hell, he thought. Maybe tonight _was_ the night for this. And he kissed her. 

Camille dropped her shoes and wrapped her arms around Richard’s neck. She kissed him back. They stood in the sand, holding each other, Camille’s head on Richard’s shoulder. 

“So, I guess it’s true,” she said. “Absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

“No, that makes no sense,” Richard replied. When Camille pulled back and looked at him with a hurt expression, he continued. “I don’t believe that being apart can make people fall in love. I think what it does is make them aware. Help them realize how much they miss each other, how much a part of each other’s lives they are.”

“Am I a part of your life?”

“More than I realized. I’ve never checked my email or messages so often. I was surprised at how disappointed I’d be when there was nothing new, and how happy I was when there was a new message. You’re why I came home early.”

“Oh, Richard,” Camille sighed. He’d said _home_ again. She kissed him, and they held onto each other tightly. Then he pushed her away slightly.

“It’s late. I suppose you want to go home?” 

Camille looked up at him and smiled, “I don’t have to. I’m home, too.”


	11. Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does not follow chapter 10. It’s an alternate ending, overlapping chapter 9, while Richard is in transit, and going on from there.  
> Sorry, Camille does not hijack a taxi.

Fidel was curious. Camille had been distracted all morning, asking the same questions about evidence several times. She had also been paying a lot of attention to her computer. Considering that they didn’t need to do any background checks or other research, it seemed odd.

Dwayne was taking his time completing the final evidence log and making sure that everything was in order for the officer from Government House who would be picking it up later. He looked up and saw Fidel raise his eyebrows and nod his head in Camille’s direction. All he could do in response was shrug. 

Finally, Dwayne spoke. “Hey, Camille? The evidence is all sorted and logged. I could do with a stretch. How about Fidel and I do a patrol down the main street?”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Do you want us to bring back something for lunch?”

“Hmm?” she scowled at her computer screen.

“Lunch, Camille? Do you want something?”

“No, I brought something. You go ahead.”

As soon as they were at the bottom of the steps and out of earshot, Fidel asked, “What’s with Camille? She asked me three times if the fingerprint report was conclusive. We went over that before we arrested the woman.”

“I don’t know for sure, but I can see her monitor. She checked her email about a hundred times this morning. And she didn’t open any messages, so I don’t think she got a new email today. You know she’s been emailing back and forth with the Chief, right?”

“Yes, she’s told us what he’s been saying about his trip.”

“Right. Well, I’m thinking that they’ve emailed more than she’s told us.” Dwayne had a smug look on his face.

“So?” Fidel looked blank, then his eyes widened. “Ohhh no. No way, not the Chief and Camille. He’d never have internet sex.”

“I’m not saying it’s about sex. But I think they’ve had a lot to say to each other. The other morning, she was sitting on the bench outside the station, and reading a message. She was looking at the phone like, I don’t know, like she was in love with it or something. I tell you, something’s going on. And I’m betting she didn’t get a message this morning. That’s why she keeps checking her email."

-o-o-o-o-

“Camille, you haven’t finished your supper,” Catherine said with a worried look at her daughter. “That’s one of your favorites. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine.” Camille tapped at her phone again, sending the short text _r u ok?_ for the fiftieth time.

“Bad news?”

“No.”

“No news, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You and Richard have been in contact a lot while he’s away. Has he stopped emailing?”

“I haven’t heard anything all day. It’s bedtime in the UK, so it’s a whole day without hearing anything. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“It’s just one day, ma chère. I don’t think you need to be worried he got run over by a bus or something like that.” 

“Maman! Don’t even _think_ such a thing!”

“Camille!” Catherine gasped. “You’re pining for him!”

“No, I’m not. That’s silly.”

“Of course not. Going out to his house _every_ day to give food and water to a lizard that’s a wild creature able to survive on its own?”

“It’s used to being cared for. And I promised Richard I would.”

“Mmm hmm, of course that’s all it is.”

“Maman!”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille had been to Richard’s house already today, so she knew that Harry had plenty of water. And there’d been a thunderstorm in the afternoon, so there probably were puddles somewhere in his territory. She had no real reason to go out there. But a walk on the beach in the moonlight would be soothing. So she found herself sitting on his veranda. 

And checking for emails and texts. Again.

Her phone buzzed! At last! The text said “Thanks for the photo. Been out of range. I’m fine. Miss you.”

Camille sighed. He was okay. And he missed her! He’d actually said it. All the tension was released and she decided to head home. She walked on the wet sand at the water’s edge, occasionally stopping to kick a wave and send up a splash of water. When she got close to town, she realized that she had left her sandals on the veranda steps. Good thing he wasn’t coming back tonight. How would she explain that?

-o-o-o-o-

Richard looked at the time on his phone. Ten minutes! The taxi service had said “soon.” What, exactly, constituted “soon” in the Caribbean? They had no sense of time, no sense of “now.” 

Richard had used his waiting time to send Camille a reassuring text. Then he scrolled through the _r u ok?_ texts. He lost count of how many there were. He started to delete some, but the fact that she’d worried about him was touching, and he didn’t want to erase the evidence of it. Should he send another text telling her he was home? No, he didn’t know what to say, and she’d call him or run over there to find out why—at least he hoped she’d want to know why. And what was he going to say? All those hours on the plane and he hadn’t come up with any kind of cover story or game plan. 

Richard paced along the quay while he thought. He had a few days of leave yet. Should he go back to work early and surprise them all? Or text Camille, maybe remind her to check on Harry, and he’d be waiting for her? That would be sort of romantic, if he was sure of her feelings. Which he wasn’t. 

-o-o-o-o-

Camille looked down at the pavement in front of her as she walked. Honoré kept its streets and walkways clean, but one dropped beer bottle, and she’d be in Casualty getting stitches on her foot. She sighed at her stupidity, forgetting her shoes like that. She stopped when she heard snippets of a conversation in the distance. Something about a taxi. She must be losing her mind, she thought it sounded like Richard. When she heard the harbormaster say goodnight, she looked up and saw him walking toward town. Then she looked toward the quay.

Oh, God, she really _was_ losing her mind! She could have sworn she saw Richard standing there. The figure paced—she knew that impatient gait all too well. He paced like that when he was stuck on a case. But how could it be? Then he paused to turn, and his face was illuminated by one of the security lights. Either she was completely insane, or it really WAS Richard!

Bare feet forgotten, she ran to the quay.

“Richard?”

“Camille—ooof!” he gasped as she launched herself at him, hugging him tightly.

“It’s really you!”

“Yes,” Richard croaked. “Could you let me breathe, please?”

“Sorry,” Camille released him. “But you’re here!”

“Wasn’t easy, I can tell you. They lost my luggage again, can you believe it? Then I missed my connecting flight, so I took the ferry. 

“But you’re two days early.”

“I changed my flight. I’d seen my parents, had some time in London. I was ready to come home.”

Camille held her breath for a moment. He said _home._ Not _back,_ but _home._ Was he aware of what he said?

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. You’re the reason I came home early.”

“You said _home._ Twice!”

“Yeah. I had to go away to realize that this is where I want to be. This is where my life is. Except for my parents, the people I care most about are all here on Saint Marie. So I’m home. Or I would be if that taxi would get here. Honestly, does—” Richard looked at his watch. “fifteen minutes count as ‘soon?’ Because they said a taxi would be here soon when I called and that was fifteen minutes ago.”

“Call back and cancel it. I’ll drive you home. I have to get my shoes anyway.”

Richard looked down at her bare feet. “Why are your shoes at my house?”

“I forgot them. I was at your house and decided to walk back along the beach, so I didn’t pick up my shoes when I left.”

“Why were you at my house at night?”

“I was—well, Harry—oh, hell. I missed you and I was worried because I hadn’t heard from you all day. And I just wanted to be there.” Camille hung her head and asked softly, “Does that make me sound like a stalker?”

“No. It kind of makes you sound—” the taxi horn interrupted Richard. He waved to the taxi and picked up his bags. As he walked to the taxi he said over his shoulder, “Are you coming?”

Camille got in the taxi, and picked up a shopping bag to hold on her lap so she would have room to sit.

“What is all of this? You said they lost your bags.”

“This is carry-on stuff. I did some shopping at the airport. 

“Tea, biscuits. Goodness, what a supply! You must intend to stay here a long time.”

Richard found Camille’s hand and squeezed it. He said softly, “I do.”

When they got to the beach house, Richard paid the taxi and they watched it drive off.

Richard unlocked the kitchen door. He set his bags down just inside the door and turned to Camille.

“Would you like to come in for a while? As you know, I’ve got tea and biscuits. And your souvenir is in here somewhere.”

“That would be—oh!” Camille looked down at her feet. “My feet are filthy from road dust. And you keep your house so clean. I’ll just run down to the water and wade a bit to rinse them off.”

Richard watched her run across the sand. He went into the kitchen and started to fill the kettle.

Camille stood in the shallow water, scrubbing her feet against the sandy bottom. She still couldn’t believe it. He was staying! He’d said she was the reason he came home early. Was she also the reason he wanted to stay on Saint Marie? She was almost certain that Richard was about to kiss her when that stupid taxi showed up. Twenty minutes late, and it chose THAT moment to show up and blow the horn. She sighed and scrubbed her feet a bit more. Then she heard a small splash.

“Richard?” she gasped when she saw him. He was standing in ankle-deep water. He had removed tie, jacket, shoes, and socks. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, and he’d rolled up his trousers a bit, too. 

“Well, if I’m staying, I should learn to enjoy being here. I don’t think I’ll ever love the sand. I worked so hard to resist everything about this place. I didn’t want to admit it, but I soon came to appreciate the rustle of the palm trees, the sound of the waves, the moonlight on the water. It is beautiful here.”

“So you’re really going to stay?” She turned to face him.

“If you want me to.” He took a step closer to her.

“Of course I do.” Camille reached up and put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them around his neck. 

“That’s good, because it wouldn’t be home without you.” Richard wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. 

Camille sighed, “You know, it’s going to be all over the island that I went home with you tonight.”

“Probably.” Richard kissed her again. “I wonder what the gossips will say? I suppose whatever it is, we could deny it.”

“I suppose.”

“Or,” He nuzzled her neck and whispered in her ear, “You could stay and we could make it true.”


End file.
